All jumbled up

I'm fighting the tide of tools hard.  
We have a kitchen of sorts; the old board on which the women mended jute flour sacks is sitting on trestles in the middle of the dusty space.  The oven has been brought up and looks tiny in its provisional corner.  There is a silent battle between Nicolas' plumbing work and my nesting instinct.  
The Chapot boys have worked the weekend, slightly under the radar, but have connected the boiler,  soldering brass pipes and attaching them to the cast iron radiators upstairs.  Their effort promises warmth and is beautiful.  
Until now I have followed the work, electricity (just about), insulation (not hard to get your head around).  I've knocked down walls and broken up concrete floors but the plumbing is above me.  
Nico has worked on and cursed at the clarinettes with their blue and red tentacles and I've held them in place while he's screwed them into the wall.  They too are beautiful but bafflingly so.
I've kept the rising tides of plane tree leaves at bay, tried to knock life back into the summer-shocked garden, and continue to fight my corner, but work space and living space are still jumbled together and there's a way to go yet.